Chapter 2: When Pride Vanishes

  It was said that the Kahl showed Prince Bardom as a shining example of a gallant knight to his angels. When the first angel lauded him, the second questioned, “Should he lose his wealth and status, he’d renounce You, and falter mightily despite your blessing.”

  The Kahl is said to have smiled, and accepted the challenge, inflicting calamity on the L’Ani family. Yet, as the Kahl knew, Bardom would rise from the ashes of despair as a titan.

  Bardom jumped awake as a thunderous boom shook the city. His suspicious eyes scanned the windows, while Lya blinked her eyes and squinted.

  “What was that?” she asked. “An earthquake?”

  “Not now,” Bardom remembered the prior night. The Lekkians!

  They listened for a clue by the window. All he heard were people shouting outside as he approached the windows. They were close to the center of town—less than a mile.

  “Do you think—?” he let the thought evaporate on his tongue.

  A pounding came at the door, and Bardom covered her mouth. “Say nothing,” he whispered to her. Sunlight streamed through the privacy of her curtains. As he donned his trousers just beyond the window frame, he peeked outside. Down the street, he saw a troop of men wearing black helmets, with uniforms the color of red wine. They marched with shields and spears. They were safe down this side street for now.

  Bardom thought. How could this happen so quickly? Lekkian men in Katan-Bat? A surprise attack? Wahda would have seen this coming!

  He saw that the commotion was caused by a building collapsing. It was the site of the Katanese military headquarters—a symbol of great strength.

  The rumors of Jermaine Rontisil were certainly true, but the warlord had failed mightily in bringing his armies within 30 miles of the city’s walls those years ago. The Demon King could not have been so cunning to launch this attack.

  Although, the spies did say that he turned his whole country into an army. He used the death of his old king as an opportunity to take power—cutting through the old Royalists like a savage. Now, he was the Demon King of the Southwest. For turning the beautiful and prosperous city of Stet-Lek into a heartless land of slavery and cruelty, he earned the name. Bardom knew the stories of the great palaces and keeps in the city, and thought about the terrible men who now lived in them by enabling Rontisil’s brutality.

  What vendetta against the good people of Katan-Bat could he then have? Bardom thought bitterly. Was taking his own home not enough to satisfy him?

  The knocking came again, this time softer. Now that Bardom was dressed, he took his sword hilt into his hand, ready to draw it if necessary. He could hear two people outside, but he was unsure if they were allies.

  “What is going on?” Lya questioned, clutching her chest.

  The door burst open, and she screamed while Bardom drew his sword. The curved blade threatened the entrants, but the faces belonged to his own guards. His friends, Kent and Wally.

  “We must get you to safety, my prince,” Kent said. “Enemies have overtaken the city!”

  Lya tugged at his shirt. “Don’t leave me here, Bardom!”

  He looked at her and held her face, having only seconds to decide that fate was forcing his hand. “Lya, my cousins in the north might be my only escape. Their ship, the Sapier, is at the docks. Find it. While you do, I must find my family.”

  She nodded, tears in her eyes. He kissed her forehead and said quietly to her, “If anyone asks—anyone—you tell them I’m dead. Do you hear me?”

  She sobbed into his chest. He had to fight his own emotions to stay focused on their survival—it was a different strategy entirely from Wahda’s training, but the principles were the same. Honor the sword, and let it kill, but know when a time for stealth approaches.

  “Please, Lya!” he whispered.

  She nodded as she cried. “I will.”

  “I do love you,” he swallowed a sob as it came over him. “Thank you for being mine.” With no more words, he turned to his men. “Let’s go.”

  He ignored her sniffles and whimpers, shuddering at what the war council must have been meant to discuss. The Lekkians must have overtaken their defenses far quicker than ever imagined. It was hard to believe that the southwest had become a breeding ground for extreme ideologies, and even stranger that they were now successful on the field of battle, too.

  But how could they now be marching through their streets and destroying their military buildings? Bardom quickly deduced that Rontisil had killed all the spies before they could inform them of the plot. By the time the L’Anis received information about an invasion, it was likely a deception sent by Rontisil himself. They were left unprepared because that was how Rontisil wanted it. The armies of Stet-Lek marching for days unnoticed made Bardom enraged.

  Once, when Bardom was a child, he ventured into those parts, not too far beyond the border. The thought of the beautiful hills of that green land being stained with the blood of human sacrifice, or more commonly the sweat of slaves poached from neighboring lands, turned his stomach.

  Yet, those thoughts were not a tenth as harrowing as seeing Lekkian swords swinging through his streets, the assailants adorned in their masked dark helmets.

  Kent grabbed Bardom’s shoulder. “Sir, they have taken the king’s stronghold. Look.” He pointed to the red and black flag of the Demon King atop the largest of the spires. The blue and yellow flag of the L’Ani Clan sailed lifelessly down the side of the building. Bardom’s shoulders sank, his lips opening slightly at his family’s pride being stripped.

  I must stop this, he thought foolishly.

  “This changes things,” Wally said.

  “Wally-ahu,” Bardom said softly, his eyes darker than midnight as he focused on his fury. “There has never been such a disaster.”

  Kent stepped in front of Bardom, seeing the state of his old friend, having seen such hateful looks on Bardom’s face two years prior on the battlefield. “If we go left, we may yet escape with our lives. We may survive as fugitives and warn the northern kings of what’s happened here. We could rally an army to take back what’s been lost.”

  Bardom scowled at the idea. “I am the Blood Son…”

  “Or we can go right,” Kent suggested, planting the butt of his spear in the ground. “Make directly for the stronghold, find who of your family may still be alive. We can release the black smoke and warn the countryside of our danger, and bring the frontier battalions into the city. A desperate play, and one that will likely result in our collective demise and failure.”

  Bardom sighed in disappointment. They would never make it to the stronghold without getting caught. Their outfits would expose them as L’Ani men.

  “Or we go straight,” Kent said. “We wade into the city, evaluate what is happening, join the fight, or sneak our way to the stronghold. We might yet find your brother, your father, or any others of your kin. We might be able to repel the attack enough to save lives, and make for the harbor where Lya will be waiting.”

  Wally tried to hide his skepticism. “Can’t see any ship captains staying in the harbor during all this.”

  Bardom glanced down the path, seeing nothing but smoke over the buildings as people ran away from the city center. His lovely home, his beloved Katan-Bat…conquered by radicals, fanatics… and slaves. Men fighting a holy war by destroying his city. Fighting for an evil man, who only sought to make himself richer, more powerful, and above everyone else in the world. The continent could not appease him. It was clear now to Bardom that this invasion was inevitable. His only regret of the past year was not having the wisdom to attack him first.

  How my hindsight haunts me, Bardom thought.

  Months of diplomatic meetings between Katan-Bat and the Midlands, all for nothing. Atzulah had lamented their weariness for war with Stet-Lek. They knew of Rontisil’s ambitions, but the moral cowardice of the entire continent stayed his hand. His father knew this would happen. Why did he let it?

  I’ll correct the mistake with the might of my sword! Bardom resolved, just as a few Lekkians started to approach.

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  “Sir?” Kent awaited an answer.

  Bardom inhaled deeply. “HEY!”

  Wally turned around in fright. “What are you doing!”

  “HEY!” Bardom shouted again.

  Kent turned and saw four enemy men, clad in Lekkian mahogany, marching straight toward them, breathing heavily, appearing to be salivating. They wore light armor, chest plates and vambraces of steel, their legs lightly padded of the same color. Their black trousers met black boots, symbolizing the cleanliness of their free Lekkian status. On their heads were masked helmets, and on their sides two blades—one large for battle, the other smaller, like a long dagger, for stealth. Clearly stealth did not interest them today.

  It occurred to Bardom that these men were not particularly tall, nor were they special in any way. They only dressed to frighten their enemies. Inside, they were just men. Soft, destructible men. Flesh was all he would need to find.

  Bardom watched them approach and pulled his blade. Its sound gave Bardom a rush—this was where his purpose lied!

  “Why are you here?” His bark inspired his comrades, pointing their spears at the enemies.

  “For you, non-believer,” his accent was distinct beneath his muffling mask. “We must cleanse this land of its occupiers. You have no right to it—this land belongs to our Great Leader.”

  “Trust me,” Bardom said. “You should fear me far more than Jermaine Rontisil.”

  The men winced and hissed angrily. “You’ll die for speaking His name!”

  Bardom and his friends rushed the Lekkian soldiers, combating their brutish strength with their own skill. Bardom could not deny that these men were far better fighters than he anticipated, unlike the poorly trained men he battled two years prior.

  Still, he had never fought in a long war—the two week conflict he experienced could never compare to the stories of his father. If this was what he was meant to expect, he could see why it made men so tired.

  To avoid fatigue, he made the kill simple. At the back of the neck, there are enough places to sever a nerve so that a man falls dead in an instant. This particular man had a long neck, which gave Bardom the license to pick a spot, but he did not think long about it. He simply faked, let the man swing ferociously at nothing, and cut. When the man fell, his friends noticed. They looked at his dagger and saw the emblem belonging to the Knights of the Realm.

  “Bardom Bloodson!” one whispered as he fought back against Kent’s spear.

  Kent fought hard, but he was undersized for his match. Fairness did not matter anymore, so Bardom rushed forward and kicked him onto his back—then stabbed the side of his neck too, leaving him to gurgle on the ground. Wally killed his man, disarming him and slicing his whole head off. The might of that man, my dear comrade! Bardom thought.

  But Bardom’s pride for Wally faltered, as he saw the head of his enemy roll toward his own feet.

  Look what war makes men capable of, Bardom thought as he swallowed away his disgust.

  The last man of the party had set his sword down in his scabbard and sat on a rock, only watching through his mask. “Well done,” he said, his accent noticeably different from the others.

  “Will you not avenge your friends?” Kent called to him. Bardom noticed his much more tattered uniform. This was not a free man.

  “Those were not my friends,” he said. “You earned your passage, I shall not hinder you.”

  “You are mistaken, stranger,” Bardom said. “You die here, or you run.”

  The older soldier sighed through his mask. “If you insist.” He took up his sword, then looked the Katanese men over. His gaze held, appraising them, filling Bardom with anticipation. What is going on in his head?

  Then, the soldier only fixed his belt and strode off the way he came. “I wish the three of you good fortune.”

  Once he was gone, Bardom ran to the corpses, removing their uniforms and hiding the bodies in the bushes. Bare whispers of a plan were shared between the frightened men.

  While Kent spoke quietly, Bardom wondered how this trio, who once trained by fighting with sticks as boys, were now fighting for their lives. They’d killed together, laughed together, and now, for the second time, prepared to die together.

  They donned the Lekkian armor and took their swords, discarding the Katanese spears. Bardom quite liked his sword, so he hid it under a loose brick, where he figured no one else might find it. If ever he had the chance to return, he would come for it.

  “These garments reek of fanaticism,” Kent spat. “We’d best not get too close to the enemy. If we are recognized, we are dead.”

  Bardom did not listen. He feared what he would learn deeper in the city. There were no significant walls or troops to defend them, no fortifications beyond the scouting towers to send rescue parties for those who became lost in the deep forests of the inland. The hilly border with the Lekkians was their protection, while the north was mountainous. The city constabulary was already strewn about the street, the officers dead with blood streaked on the ground around them. There would be no one to fight at this stage—the Lekkians would have already found them.

  Bardom and his fellows were safe in their disguises as long as no one bothered to ask who they were. As the trio waded deeper, they heard many shouting voices. They passed several groups of Lekkians moving with their spears in hand, swords held aside in their scabbards. How horrible it is to see this great city infested with occupiers, he thought.

  The red streets of Bardom’s home told a different story than the one he knew. The south and eastern shores of Katan-Bat were alive with ports, stretching for miles of coastal shipping that carried on northward, to the East Midlands then the Northkeepers. Of the five kingdoms on the continent of Gani, Katan-Bat was the most peace-loving. Their unruly neighbors in Stet-lek, the southwestern country, had only recently become a threat.

  Now, Abban L’Ani’s war council came too late to save his people from savagery. A man who rules savages with fanatics is bound to be devoured by his own monstrosity, Abban once said of Rontisil. Bardom fantasized of killing the Demon King. As soon as that dream showed him satisfaction his thoughts spun to his father, his mother, and Atzulah. Rontisil will have to wait for my blade.

  The trio did as they planned, marching straight ahead into town. It wasn’t just military structures being demolished—the enemy was setting shops ablaze, as the mahogany-clad brutes dragged innocents into the streets. Bardom soon realized that they were moving people downtown, pushing them forward with the tips of their spears. The closer they came to his father’s stronghold, the more Bardom feared. The streets were littered with the bloodied defenders of Katan-Bat—caught unprepared in their blue and yellow uniforms.

  Children wailed—a sound impossible to ignore. Bardom tried not to let the fear overtake him as the sights grew worse. As babies were stolen from their mothers, the most resistant of the women being murdered right then and there.

  This can’t be real, Bardom thought. What mockery of a knight am I that I cannot help these people? Shame! I should bury my dagger in my gut, and bleed to death for this failure.

  Those thoughts drowned out the worst of the atrocities around him. These invaders would never relent, for they had won. His family’s safety was all that mattered.

  “Sinners of Katan-Bat!” a voice bellowed. People stared, crammed before him in fear.

  “By the Kahl,” Kent whispered. “That’s him.”

  Bardom saw the display on his father’s stones, a great stage where dancing and music often stood. Men on their knees, hands bound behind their backs. Beaten. Bloody. Humiliated. Standing over them, placing one smug foot after another was the Demon King himself.

  Jermaine Rontisil, his black gloves stained bloody and face splattered with blood and dirt, presided over the crowd. His long black hair was tied behind him, while his dark eyes looked around the crowd with a mad look. Perhaps when composed and cleaned, this appeared a somewhat respectable man. Here, he could only be a monster.

  “We need to get closer,” Bardom insisted. The soldiers had already surrounded the civilians.

  Wally grabbed him, and his voice became terribly grim. “We have to get out of here, actually.”

  “The time has come for your reckoning,” the Demon King said. His black trousers and mahogany armor nearly matched those of the soldiers, except it was of higher quality with a scaly pattern on the chest plate, and for the insignia on his shoulders. It was an image of a snake, but Bardom could not see the stage well. He recognized his father, his brother, and his uncle who were knelt down. His eyes noted the fear on Lord Wahda’s face. He’d never seen that before. The pride he wore yesterday was gone, shattered like broken glass.

  Bardom’s royal father looked firm, eyes scanning the crowd.

  “He’s going to kill them all,” Kent realized.

  “No,” Bardom whispered in disbelief. His mother was not there, nor Atzulah’s family.

  Soldiers lined up behind the prisoners, an erected wooden structure with a single log over their heads. They threw ropes over the log, then set them around their necks as Wahda strained to break free of his binds. The Demon King’s words were lost to Bardom, who made a move to launch forward, only to be restrained by Kent and Wally.

  “RAH!” Bardom said.

  “Hey!” one of the soldiers spun and grabbed him by the collar. “Too much bloodthirst? Get over it. The Great Leader must make his example, then you can go on and kill any of these worthless animals.”

  “He’s just hungry for battle,” Kent said, trying to cover.

  “Aren’t we all,” grumbled the soldier, who ignored the three and went back to watching.

  Bardom stopped resisting, and took off his helmet. He could see his father looking at him. Even far away, he could see him mouth the words: I love you.

  “In the name of our holy mission,” Rontisil said, “I sentence the blaspheming leaders of Katan-Bat to die.”

  “Go,” announced Abban L’Ani, looking at Bardom, standing up to face his death. Everyone else on stage reluctantly followed.

  Bardom felt warm tears fall from his eyes. “No,” he whispered.

  Rontisil and Abban shared a look of hate. The Demon King nodded to his men. They each heaved the rope, lifting their victim high.

  Once he saw the rope tighten, Bardom felt a wall break within him. Instead of watching, he looked away—only hearing the gasps in the crowd. A siren of his failures.

  He listened to people crying as his family and friends choked. Then it went silent, and he knew they had stopped fighting. They were with the Kahl now, and Bardom was in hell.

  Bardom put his mask back on, and wept silently.

  He nearly pulled his sword out and cut down every soldier there.

  He nearly rushed for Rontisil.

  He nearly cried out in agony.

  But instead he did none of it.

  Instead, he began his plan. One that would take years to execute. One that would correct the injustices before him, but create so many more in their place. Bardom would kill the Demon King and take everything he took from him sevenfold.

  Bardom L’Ani never once wanted revenge before, but now it was all he craved. Nothing would stop him, for what is more determined than a man with nothing left?

  Perhaps only a man who had gained everything he ever wished for. In that, Bardom found his match in Jermaine Rontisil.

  As his heart pounded, Bardom stood while the crowd broke up. Rontisil left with a large contingent of shiny-masked guards. Bardom needed to first find his mother. Once she was safe, he could begin his quest.